Though we covered the passing of Pontiac two months ago in lush, one-page detail, I was strangely unaffected by its death. For someone who gets emotional when General Mills discontinues a line of breakfast cereals, I found myself shocked at my callousness and determined to peer deeply into my soul for an answer as to why I didn’t seem to care.

I found it, almost immediately. The Pontiacs I grew up with were not the great ones. There was no ’66 Ram Air GTO for me, no ’69 Grand Prix with the Royal Bobcat 428. The ’Yaks of my formative years—let’s call them the big-hair ’80s and no-hair ’90s—invariably stunk. That’s unfair. They mostly stunk. Those years held out one outrage after another: A Korean hatchback wearing the storied LeMans badge. Mesh headrest inserts passed off as performance cues. Grands Am and Grands Prix so festooned with injection-molded hideousness that they looked like a dollar store exploded right in front of them. Those cars displayed such contempt for their customers that they made me lose faith in General Motors, and I am one of those who grew up teething on the company’s seatbelt buckles.